1. |
bentham.
02:37
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profit climbs—competition mind. wage drain prison vision trend. prison slaves are big business. download sounds and we lock
you up. steal your lunch and we fuck you up. mandatory minimum #$@! he fired the skilled and cops knocked at our doors to
restock raw materials. synonym: war on crime, war on poor. mass control. jail is social service. stockholders lobby for
extended sentences. the system feeds itself. courtyard scene: sing the sun. factory scene: the fastest growing industry owing to
drugs and non-violent crimes. build my turbine. populace, eat your pennies up. classist laws—systematized eugenics. comb the
homies. schedule drugs by consulting racial demographics. clean our streets for the sake of the arms industry.
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2. |
jam jar.
00:55
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no prizes, no gifts. just purchases, time spent. your time, your job, your house, and with them your holds barred. and then you gave way more to them. you gave a bomb in times square. and all you got back? just smoke and fifty-three hours. what would you have given for fifty-four?
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3. |
maybe threat.
00:46
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plug us in. divert us. protect our thoughts. we go to bed. carpet bomb the maybe threat. carpet bomb the press. fuck the news i wanna see the banal talent hour and bears slippin n shit and people fall off bikes and maury’s fat babies and celeb court cases. techno soldiers what? i wanna be with marlene...but i gotta fight—that’s the woosley shit. plug us in. divert us. protect our thoughts. we go to bed. go back to bed we’re in control. catapulting troops into walls. crumbling temples with their ribs for the win—the human rind, the pith. go back to bed we’re in control.
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4. |
get it john.
02:01
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coach buckler: you fucking kids—we’re down by three points. how do you think that makes your coach feel? you fucking kids pay me to scream and project my marital issues and computer illiteracy. you fucking kids—i just bought a two thousand dollar computer and i don’t know how to fucking work it. now get the fuck out there and show them it bothers me. john sr.: get it john—make us rich. i live my dreams through you. chase it. chase it. get the ball—i fucking mean it. kill that kid or you ride home in the trunk. chase it. chase it. hustle. get it john. don't fuck up. get the ball. choir: masochistic jocks—gladiators for parental entertainment—chase it, chase it. your other kids are off breaking windows while john makes you too rich to age. reveal your tits at the little league game, jump and chant your kids name. john sr.: hey ref are you retarded? bully him some more—it’s okay john shake it off. when we’re old you’ll make us young...tummy tuck and—get it. okay that was fun. see you at the next game. was that the best you could have done john? no don’t worry it’s just a game. psych! *blam* *beat down* no son of mine is a faggot. all right i think you learned your lesson. come here and give daddy a hug. psych! think about this next time don’t disappoint me john. okay john?
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5. |
sex is stupid.
01:52
|
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|
trained to follow religious rules of state monogamy. built with this dick revealing that's not how things seem. discerning my mind’s self/negativity and ambiguity over the repeated stance of exclusive private intimacy. extorting apathetic scrubs for financial upsurge. creating false perception of human relation dexterity. extorting apathetic scrubs for fear and country and pride and nation, station, separation. “dead-beat scum bag looking to grab another notch on the stick. pride yourself with copious fucks—inhibition is the trick.” reverence remain—life has changed. lewd wanton—that's okay. “whore slut tramp moll.” browbeating—stalwartness. molesting—give me a kiss. “you're just making bad excuses for accountability.” tolerance and respect will benefit all but that’s not stable for your government and your authority so we can sit here for decades and be butt-hurt about petty bullshit and fabricated love. boner is dead and sex is stupid. we’re just making bad excuses.
|
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6. |
first met rose.
00:16
|
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7. |
pocket thought.
02:29
|
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|
rape, murder, lohans fur coat coke rebirth—shits a joke, toke and get stoked—go for broke—medium mind fuck coat over- load. glamorize my life with your shit allegory story and paid agenda. you call that news? telling me how to think—link between drink machine. breaking news right after this. pocket thought. if you want I will sit with my eyes and ears taped right up. see-through television media explosion. opinion based art-core quick confusion. quick edit post blog on high-speed connection. i’m finally going to come. i’m finally going to nut my problem.
|
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8. |
radical artifice.
01:53
|
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|
press for sedation—drug store duplicate. try me. auto-tune me. an ephemeral exploitative sedative. a momentary spell relegated to fodder for economic interests—passive entertainment, exploitative temporary music for temporary people. canned sensation for sedation. unity of art and business irremediably paired with advertisement and the incumbent copyright protection system. cultural music is hoarded and protected. the market condom cockblocks progress, the economy stifles evolution. music grows out of itself, is strictly for itself—self-indulgent. feed me your product—ephemeral, losing popularity. love me famous person vacating the airwaves for another of equal value. we strive for honesty and self-indulgent artistry. hey girl look here: download sounds and we lock you up. something sounds familiar—it’s an album independently released—an autonomous entity, an artifact for whatever. thus we see patterns repeat. this is a raucous catharsis. sounds fuck our family quilts and breed. there’s a neutral hue because all music is equally arbitrary. music kills itself is strictly for itself. the medium resists template artistry but is replete with pastiche.
|
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9. |
draco cop.
01:02
|
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|
i want to be surveilled. you’re a camera. i’m a scandal to be neutralized. detain me and corrupt my file you factitious super- eye. i stand by and typify. draco cop is that your mullet? on red mile, hey officer nice teeth. draco cop is your mallet, a factitious super-eye. classify, reify. i’m informed with a truncheon. i suck cops’ dicks, i cop out. he’s spearing a line of picketers —a communistic shish kabob. i could be you and ruin your day and mandate clownsuits within the city limits, controlling and burning entire families and find a place to laugh. brother i’m you—i’m Varg in the flesh? that’s the same cop from the beginning of my life—a factitious super-eye, i can’t stop him coming here. fucking harping and transposing. hey just joking. hey officer nice teeth.
|
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10. |
iblis.
01:07
|
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|
iblis! bow to him you fucking scum. shaitan!! do your deeds they'll serve you well. detract his mind and feed him filth. mother is weak—she's even dying. prayer crushes thought—useless. submit to me, i'll fix you the fuck up. stop with the “help.” fuck what you've “learned.” i can be your friend. stand by the land. i'm not coming back. stop with the “help.” fuck what you've “earned.” i can be your man. walk through the sand. i'm not coming back. mom is god—growth is gross. both provoke locked groove boss. dad is mad—work is hard. bike lock blues—its a fad. iblis!!! you and i should be fucking friends. shaitan!! you're never home when i call.
|
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11. |
bike in pond.
00:15
|
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12. |
mona.
07:11
|
|||
|
we never see what’s wrong—we’re wrong, clocking in again. i’m praying for technology as it preys on you. the arbiter of the undying process will surely laugh our little ruse to scorn. i hop institution to institution. i contribute. i pass checkpoint after checkpoint and my data is corrupted. i’m on watch and they take notes—my private record is debauched. intermittent shores and lexical undercuttings. i’ve just been surveilled. pray. we cope and contribute. push a broom, push a number key—so it is and so must always be. sanctimonious yelling. piss your wages up the wall—back to racing whippets and growing leeks.
we’re occupational automata. i’m a guidance counsellor. forget ourselves—our selfhood. we wandered into the infrastructure. i see one thing i see one thing. i’m a cubicle. i’m a sidescroller. out the window, the parallax traffic. this is what i am. i jump on my boss’s head. two times later she gives me a paycheque and the stage changes. your value as an employee stops at your value as an employee. we don’t call ourselves ourselves—i call you an engineer. urethane eternal i trudge the ghetto plastic and lights dictate my walk. a harpsichord strum cues the start of robot murders. i’m stuck in a gradual momentum. crumbling— how do i ascribe value to something? what has value? i saw your face...what were you doing there?
|
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